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I have been very tempted to wade into the debate surrounding Prince Charles’ sabotage of Richard Rogers’ Chelsea Barracks scheme, but I am going to resist. Many column inches have already been devoted to the subject and I doubt I could add much. But there is just one point I’d like to make. Where are the government, or the opposition for that matter, in all this? Silent – that’s where.

Now that has to be wrong. They must have a point of view. One of the great turn-offs in politics these days is that nobody really seems to have a point of view and if they do they are easily dissuaded if it looks like the wind is blowing in the opposite direction. The government is the only body that has the power to do something that will actually make a difference, be that by expressing disapproval, issuing a reprimand, undertaking an overhaul of the planning process or having a quiet word with Clarence House.

So, instead of getting locked into a no-win debate with a silent opposition I am going to write about something entirely uncontentious, that will not win me or lose me clients, but that gives enormous pleasure – food.

Food, the way we shop for it, prepare it, eat it, the socialising and conversation that goes with it, the way we search out places to eat it, the way it brings people together, the way it expresses a nation, a region, a personality, a mood, the detail, the ensemble – it is all a metaphor for the way we go about design.

Richard & Ruthie taught me about food, pleasure and architecture. I was there when the River Café was the works canteen and my mum used to come and meet me for lunch

On Saturday I had the most divine, spontaneous late lunch with my husband in our new favourite restaurant Bocca di Lupo in Soho. The space is nicely under-designed. It has recycled school desks for tables, simple and carefully chosen tableware. The waiters are relaxed, and knowledgable but it is the food that reigns. It is sublime and authentic, original and classic, composed of great ideas, contrasting tastes and textures and the freshest of ingredients. And it is designed for sharing, which makes the experience more intimate. It is the kind of food that makes you fantasise about your next meal there.

We started with a delicate pile of red and black radishes, sliced so thinly they were translucent. It was like taking a section through a building, revealing the structure of the root and the frilly ring of colour that bounds the core. These slices were casually laid on top of shavings of creamy white celeriac, the foundations of the piece. Glistening red pomegranate seeds were scattered on top, the intensity of their colour trapped by a transparent casing. And as a lubricant, a drizzle of sexy truffle oil.

Then a lobster so unadorned and fresh you could taste the sea. Peas and broad beans, a perfect geometric combination of symmetry and free form, braised until barely tender in verdant green olive oil and mint. Small pieces of lamb done a number of ways, deep fried cutlets coated in garlicky breadcrumbs, fillet cooked just so and spherical organs from another part of the beast. Gnocchi that were so feather light you might imagine they were aerated, placed on an unctuous, silky rich, deep brown ragu. After all that our hunger was satiated and it was time for a siesta.

I had been there the week before, late at night, as the kitchen was about to close, but because we arrived with the architect who designed the place we were treated to the chef’s selection – thereby giving the element of choice to someone who knows more about the subject than me. And the time before that I went with my son, when we ate so much that we elected to walk home to Holloway. During our arduous hour-long trek we had one of our best conversations and arrived feeling exhausted but atoned for our greed.

Small pieces of lamb, deep fried cutlets coated in garlicky breadcrumbs, fillet cooked just so and spherical organs from another part of the beast

You see, food does it for me in the same way as architecture. Richard & Ruthie, by example, taught me about the relationship between food, pleasure and architecture. I was there when the River Café was the works canteen and my mum used to come and meet me for lunch.

Just like architecture, the experience of eating affects the way you interact, changes a mood and when it’s great, that experience lingers on. And as we know, a fine restaurant, like a fine building, can change a place and create a sense of destination.

I love cooking and I love the pleasure it gives people when I get it just right. And unlike the topic I began this column with, it’s one of those win–win scenarios. Nobody ever thanks you for washing up but they do thank you for a good meal.